HAYLO: TOO MANY GAY JOKES
by Ridley the Violator
Summary: A NEW SAGGY BEGANS. Warning: HAYLO 1 is required reading, OCs and 100% OOC. UPDATE: Revised first chapter, working on chapter 2.
1. Character Sheets

_Dramatis Personae_

The vast cast of characters in the HAYLO saga has been compared to those in other epic fantasies, such as _A Song of Ice of Fire _and _Wheel of Time. _Amongst its maelstrom of lost souls a reader may become confused by the dearth of rich characterization and subtle dialogue; so much is left unsaid by these strange and wondrous beings that it would take a mentally herculean effort to keep track of every motivation and development that has befallen them. To that end I have provided a quick list of the main and supporting players that have appeared so far, their personality traits, as well as the organizations they belong to in this game…this game amongst the stars called _HAYLO. _These character descriptions are adapted from 4.0 D&D statistics, in case there are any losers reading.

_UNSC (Humans): Otherwise known as the 'Unprotected Nasty Sex Cabal.'_

**The Chief**

Alignment: Chaotic Neuter

Strength: Retard

Intelligence: Idiot Wit

Charisma: Manic

Dexterity: Palsy

Wisdom: Senseless

Constitution: Implacable

**Oreo **

Alignment: Lawful Boob

Strength: Waif-fu

Intelligence: Politically Correct

Charisma: Moe

Dexterity: Josh Whedon

Wisdom: Washington State

Constitution: Granola Girl

**Sergeant Johnson**

Alignment: FIGHT THE POWER

Strength: That of a Fine Nigroid

Intelligence: Street-Wise

Charisma: Ebonics

Dexterity: Can Drop A Bag off Whilst Simultaneously Letting a Mag off

Wisdom: Charming Indigenous Folk

Constitution: Twelve Inches of Power.

**Major Silva (KIA)**

Alignment: Triple Agent

Strength: Superego

Intelligence: Superior

Charisma: Hannibal

Dexterity: Quick, like Silver

Wisdom: Vanity

Constitution: Can Deconstruct a Man for Hours

**Corporal McKay (KIA)**

Alignment: Most One Dimensional Character

Strength: Bitch-like

Intelligence: Bitchish

Charisma: Bitchy

Dexterity: Bitchness

Wisdom: Bitchtastic

**Captain Keyes (KIA)**

Alignment: 20th Century

Strength: Muscular Atrophy

Intelligence: Alzheimer's

Charisma: Adult Diapers

Dexterity: WHO ARE YOU?

Wisdom: Also Alzheimer's

Constitution: Iron Lung

**Mendoza (DIA – Dick in Ass)**

Alignment: whichever one is the gayest possible one

Strength: Fairy

Intelligence: Can Spot a Carrier from a Mile Away

Charisma: Even the Straight Boys Want Him

Dexterity: six dicks at once

Wisdom: Rubber? What Rubber?

Constitution: One Hour Assgasm

**Cortana**

Alignment: Binary Binding

Strength: Dominatrix Style

Intelligence: 12 Gigs of RAM

Charisma: Never Shuts the Fuck Up

Dexterity: Snap Crackle Pop

Wisdom: Comes from Pain

Constitution: Painfully Drawn Out

The Covenant (Aliens): A terrorist organization.

**Commander Darren (MIA – Maybe into Anal)**

Alignment: The Other Team

Strength: Very Heterosexually Masculine

Intelligence: Just because I read books doesn't mean I'm gay.

Charisma: Some of history's greatest leaders were gay…

Dexterity: I HAVE NEVER GOTTEN A REACH AROUND

Wisdom: Everyone gets an AIDS test every other month, don't they?

Constitution: I AM NOT GAY

**Kit Fisto**

Alignment: Dark Action Girl

Strength: Fucking AWP Whore

Intelligence: *List of Gun Facts*

Charisma: Deadpan

Dexterity: Bolt Action

Wisdom: Unfazeable

Constitution: Can Stake out that Shit for Hours

**Oz the Stealth Hunter**

Alignment: Helpfulness

Strength: Unholy

Intelligence: Undead

Charisma: Uninteresting

Dexterity: Unskilled

Constitution: Unvincible

**Eric the Jackal (KIA – He's Fucking Dead, Okay?)**

Alignment: Bro

Strength: Ping Pong

Intelligence: Dave Matthews

Charisma: Incubus

Dexterity: Gamecube

Constitution: I LOVE YOU BRO

The Wild Cards (The Village People)

**343 Guilty Spark (MAI – Maniacal Artificial Intelligence)**

Alignment: I Have no Mouth and I Must Scream

Strength: Massive extendible robo cock

Intelligence: If Every Molecule of my Being Screamed "HATE" It Would Not Be Enough

Charisma: Baby…have you ever seen a real hard drive?

Dexterity: Ray Bradbury was Right

Constitution: Can Satisfy an Entire Harem of Robots in one Night

**The Flood**

Alignment: Running out of ammo from shooting one zombie over and over again and then looking up and seeing the other zombies and being like OH SHIT and then you die.

Strength: Backing into doors and opening them while not looking at them and backing through the door into a huge horde of zombies that rips you apart gruesomely

Intelligence: Tripping over stuff while running through the forest and looking over your shoulder and then screaming as the camera zooms towards your face or mouth or something

Charisma: Standing by a window and yelling at the other survivors as the horde smashes through and grabs you and then tears you apart while everyone screams and you beg for your life and it's very shocking

Dexterity: Trying to save the strange, undead child by stuffing your hand into her mouth and then screaming loudly as the camera shakes back and forth and there's a bloody close up of your mutilated fingers and then someone starts shooting and the camera is dropped and then it's like oh my god noooooooooo tsssssssssssssh

Constitution: "But how can you kill something….THAT'S ALREADY DEAD

**Whitania (KIA – Kawai Intelligent Athena)**

Alignment: Her Children Must be Protected at all Costs

Strength: Like That of Athena, the Hunter

Intelligence: GURL POWEH

Charisma: My Inner Goddess Started Doing the Dance of the Seven Veils

Dexterity: LIKE A VAMPIRE

Constitution: wut lol is that some kind of sex jpoke?

**Cercil (WCA – Who Cares Anyways?)**

Alignment: Chaotic Bastard

Strength: FUCK SHIT MOTHER FUCKER

Intelligence: Sexual Predator

Charisma: Necrophilia

Dexterity: Tourettes

Wisdom: Mildly to Majorly Offensive

Constitution: Frankenstein

**The Master Chief (?)**

Alignment: Grimdark

Strength: ha ah ha ha

Intelligence cha ha ha ha

cHAaris ma Hu ha hea ha ha ha ha ha

D ex htheheh teytyheh eh he ha ha ha ha

Wishhhhha ha HA HA HA HA HA

CoNNnn###^^^?)


	2. HAYLO I Summary

The _HAYLO Saga _has been compared to many of the great literary sagas; the Twilight saga, the _Inheritance Cycle_, and the _Beauty_ trilogy (a ribald adventure by Anne Rice) are just a few of its literary contemporaries. While _HAYLO _is the best saga ever written, it is also most complex ever created in the history of western literature. It draws from many ancient sources, such as the legends of Gilgamesh, Inanna, and even the exploits of that mischievous trickster, Loki.

With this in mind I have created a short 'recap' of the first epic using Microsoft Auto Summary, in order to bring inattentive readers up to speed on the first installment of this magnum opus.

The Chief nodded. "I know, Chief. The Chief laughed. "Chief!" cried the Marine. The Chief gasped. "Chief! "Chief, Chief, can you hear me?" The Chief followed.

The Chief laughed. "Chief! The Chief shrugged. "Cortana!" hissed the Chief. "Keyes…" said the Chief. The Chief shrugged. "Yeah," said the Chief. The Chief looked. "Chief," came Cortana's voice. "Wow, Chief. "Cortana!" groaned the Chief. "Nice instincts, Chief."

"…Nice instincts, Chief."

"Chief," began Cortana. The Chief stopped. "Uh…Chief? The Chief shrugged. **"CHIEF. **Like the Chief. "Wow Chief," began Cortana. The Chief sneered. The Chief laughed coyly. The Chief stared.

"I'm in Chief. The Chief sighed. "Cortana. "Shut up Chief." Master Chief! "That you, Master Chief?"

The Chief shrugged. You dig, Chief?"

"Wow," said the Chief. "Um, Chief," whispered Cortana. "Cercil." The Chief shrugged. Nice one Chief."

said the Chief. How is Chief? "Damn," said the Chief. The Chief's eyes widened.

"Chief! "Eyes up here Chief," said Oreo. "Lie down, Chief."

The Chief agreed. The Chief grinned. "Shut up Chief."

Screamed the Chief. "Great job Chief. "Chief, how—"

"Oh Chief," laughed Cortana. "Wait—" began the Chief. The Chief eyed Cercil's deformed body. "Well Chief," said Oreo. The Chief looked. "Uh, Chief? The Chief giggled. "Yeah," agreed the Chief. "AH!" the Chief jumped. The Chief stared. "ROOOOooOOOOOoooOOSTER!" screamed the Chief.

"Chief don't!" shouted Oreo. "Chief, wake up! The Chief paused. "Chief? Chief you there? The Chief squinted. The Chief blinked. The Chief fired. "Wait!" shouted Chief. Cercil head butted the Chief. The Chief's eyes widened.

The Chief's eyes widened. "Cortana! Oreo! "You'll see Chief. "Cercil?" asked the Chief. "Chief…"

"Chief! The Chief gasped. The Chief waited. "CHIEF!" growled the Sergeant. "No Chief! Bad Chief!" The Chief looked. "Not bad Chief. "The Chief," scoffed Silva. The Chief. "Uh, no, Chief. "Chief…"

"…Cortana?" The Chief's visor flashed. "Chief! The Chief pointed. The Chief stopped. The Chief felt light headed. Oreo. The Chief stared.

The Chief turned. Especially the Chief." Come now, Chief. "Chief! Chief, wake up!"

The Chief groaned. The Chief sighed. Cortana pointed at the Chief. The Chief laughed nervously. The Chief stopped. "God damn it Chief."

"Cortana?" "Wait!" sputtered the Chief. "What's wrong Chief?" _The Chief was dead_. "CHIEF!" "Chief!" "Whitania," mumbled the Chief. "Cortana!" started the Chief.

"No time, Chief. The Chief sighed. "Now!" screamed the Chief. "Oreo! "HEY CHIEF!"

The Chief gasped. "CHIEF! "CHIEF!

The Chief shot him.

The Chief smirked. _ "Oreo." _Good one, Chief. "Chief, stop—"

The Master Chief grinned. "It's the Master Chief. It's me, Chief. The Master Chief grinned. "We found Keyes, Chief. Calm down, Chief."

"Chief—I mean, um, Master Chief. Cercil. "DON'T CALL ME CHIEF!" screamed the Master Chief. The Master Chief roared. "….Cercil?"

The Master Chief laughed. Cercil. Chief. And—"

The Master Chief laughed. The Master Chief laughed. The Master Chief laughed. "Cortana?"

"Yeah, Chief. The Master Chief sighed. "Chief?" "Go ahead, Chief."

The Chief shook himself. The Chief stopped. The Chief faltered. The Chief gasped. MMMMM CCCCEEEeee CHIEF versus Cercil!"

The Chief scowled.

"Cercil!"


	3. Familiar Feces

**Tonight's Episode**

_**Familiar Feces**_

Space.

The final frontier.

It is generally agreed upon in the scientific community that space is as cold as ice. Normal measurements of 'final' and 'frontier' are simply not Star Trek enough to indicate just how cold it is, as cold as the penises of Trekkies themselves.

A dildo the size of a starship thrust through this loneliness, a flash of phallic violet against the rusting outline of a gas giant. The colossal sex toy decelerated as it approached a distant shape; a space cockhead orbited around the gas giant, turgid with the blood of a hundred million covie-ants, bigger than any of the tens of thousands of ships that walled it within a sphere of penis shaped war machines.

Deep inside High Charity (for this is what the galactic mushroom head was actually called) a trial was taking place. Hundreds of fugly alien races packed the floating pod-stands of the antechamber. Three simian creatures glared down from their hover chairs at the head of this assembly, their frail bodies made regal in golden headdresses and musty velvet robes. Standing erect next to the Prophets was a bear sized clump of wiry white pubes known as Tartarus.

Boos and urine rained as two brutes escorted an Elite into view. One of the old monkeys extended a wrinkled hand, rosy and soft as if he had masturbated a lot with it. His name was the Prophet of Truth. Truth was a notoriously raw asshole, and so a smile twisted his lips as, scorn showering upon him, the captive Elite was pushed into the center of the chamber.

The Elite looked up and faced the gathered multitudes of scorn that continued to deluge into his general area. He removed his—its color only faintly seen in the dim light—purple helmet. "Hey Covephants," he said, tucking it under an arm. "Glad to see you've all gathered for the annual gorgy-that's orgy, but with a 'g', so you know it's gay."

Tartarus's foot seemed to shake High Charity. "Silence, heretic!" His butt seemed to shake indefinitely. The two brutes beside the prisoner forced their charge to his knees with sadistic smiles on their faces. One of the Brutes extracted a putrid phallus and began to wave it back and forth. His victim's eyes widened, but before anything could happen the Prophet of Truth raised his withered hand once more. His hand smelled faintly of hand lotion.

"Enough." Silence fell immediately. Satisfied, Truth returned to the holographic notes shimmering above the arm of his throne. Below him the crowd buzzed in anticipation. As he continued to read he produced a packet of pink gum from his robes and popped two sticks into his mouth. He began to chew deliberately. The rustling of the wrapper and the soft squelching of the gum echoed throughout the court. Truth's jaw popped with every smack. Finally he spoke again, closing his notes with a wave. "We must stay vigilant, my Covenant; not a single one of the Elites involved in the Halo incident may escape justice, not even if death stands in the way."

The Prophet of Regret pressed his smaller throne up to Truth's. "Can I have some gum?"

"Get your own, petulant child."

"I don't have any."

"You should have thought of that, before."

Their spat was cut off when a white armored Elite in the audience raised his hand.

"Ah…Half-Killer. What is your objection this time?" Tension crackled throughout the room at Truth's barb.

"Just _why _is it that only us Elites are standing trial for the failure at Halo, huh?" Half-Killer widened his eyes and looked invitingly at the other Elites in council, who refused to make eye contact with him or speak up. "And what about all the other races involved? This trial is targeted at _us, _the Sangheili."

The prisoner turned his gaze up to the stands. The voice was familiar but lisping due to the man's disfigurement; two missing mini-jaws.

A sneer creased Truth's lips. "The Elites shall be held accountable for their failures. Too long have they been given preferential accolades over the magnificently special and talented Brutes." The Prophet looked fondly over at Tartarus and his giant donkey cock.

"Uh…" Half-Killer's butt hovered over his chair. "…be that as it may, this is not over!"

Truth popped a gum-bubble and turned back towards the accused. "As for you…due to your failure as Commander of the Halo fleet—"

"Captain's log," interrupted the prisoner. "Star date one two three four five—Commander Darren blew up Halo with the Truth and Reconciliation. Also, Truth is a cunt."

A chorus of gasps rose from the stands. Tartarus growled low in his throat, so low that it was actually his balls growling.

"Oh? Your claim is a dubious one, indeed." Truth scrolled through his notes once more, perusing some shitty anime fan art that he had downloaded. "This 'Commander Darren' does not exist in any record on our battle network. And really, if you're going to make someone up, try using a name that's not a human one."

In the stands Half-Killer began to whistle.

"Furthermore, regardless of the nature of your command, your inability to safeguard Halo was a colossal failure that only a terrible and shitty Elite could have performed." Truth's voice rose. "Too long have we let the Elites monopolize 'protecting the ancient ring world that we discover by chance.' Equal opportunity must be given to the extremely special and talented Brutes."

"Whatever-I know you're just upset because someone besides you won the Ms. High Charity beauty pageant last year."

The antechamber erupted into peals of laughter, much like orange peels but for that which makes them bitter; not the sting of citrusy oils, but the sourness of derision. Also Tartarus farted.

"Silence! That contest was rigged, and all of you know it!" Truth went beet red despite his words and his right hand pumped up and down in reflexive rage. Speaking of masturbation the Prophet of Regret moved up behind him.

"I say we end this farce, Truth: the time has come for the cock of justice to be sheathed into the bung of villainy."

"An excellent metaphor; now I remember why I promoted you." Truth inclined his head and glanced at the third member of his threesome: the Prophet of Mercy. The aging holy man(?) had fallen asleep. The faint smell of ass drifted to Truth on the open air. "Okay, no." He swiveled back to the room at large. "There has been enough rhetoric this night. I pronounce the heretic guilty." A bubble of clamor burst and subsided in the time between his breaths. "Tartarus, confiscate the infidel's armor and brand him with the mark that befits his fall."

"Sure." Tartarus seized his victim by the arm and whispered into his ear: "We're gonna have a lot of fun together,"

The Elite ignored Tartarus and turned to the antechamber at large. "This is bruteshit. I know you're out there, Darren! I know that you know that you and me know that we are the only ones who know what happened on Hayknow!"

Truth peered down his flat nose, or rather his face. "It's you and 'I.'"

It was no use: the prisoner's diatribe set the crowd to boiling. Half-Killer buried his face in an upside down newspaper.

"Get him out of here!" screeched Regret, pushing his chair forwards. Truth slapped him back as the uproar from the crowd reached a crescendo.

Now the disgraced Elite's jaws dropped. "FUCK ALL OF YOU, YOU MOTHERFUCKING COCK SUCKING FOCK SOCKETING THROUGH A SHIT BLISTER THAT'S SCRAPING INTO A ROTTTEN CUNT FLAPPING ASS JACK OFF A DIKE KIKE'S HONKEY RED DOT LOVE HOLE WITH A HORSE DICK LICKING NIGGER CHEESE EATING A CUM CHUGGING BUTT SNORTING SNIFFREAK OFF A BOILED GOAT UP A WHITE BREAD INJUN EYE DEER BLOWING EAR RAPING PENIS PUMPING BUTT PLUGGING FAGGOT!"

"Fool!" Truth cackled in derision, his withered laugh breaking through the clamor. "You have no power here, Cercil the Purple. This is my domain!"

"No!" Cercil stared down at his hands in horror, even though his evil powers did not come from his hands. Hands are just interesting.

The Brutes began to drag him out to his anal fate. The crowd began to chant: "HERETIC, HERETIC!"

"HAIRY DICK!" Cercil recoiled from Tartarus. The doors to the antechamber opened. "You've gotta believe me! It was Whitania! She tricked me and Darren both! It's all the Mary Sue's fault, I had nothing to do with Halo—or the child!—I can tell you all about the baby, baby!" He shook his fist at the stands. "WHERE IS SHE DARREN!? You stole my daughteeeeer!"

Truth closed the internet browser he had been using and mimed quotation marks with his fingers. "Ah yes, _fan girls_, the ancient and unstoppable enemy of the universe coming to destroy us all. We have dismissed these claims."

Cercil railed against him. The doors slammed shut on his threats of brutal snuff rape.

_And somewhere else in the universe…_

"Ya really did a number on this armor, boy; computer system's fried, visor's smeared, seal's broken, semen stains in the lining, holes in the butt plate, snapped catheter…"

The Chief put his impassive, gold-faced helmet back on. "Someone complains lots even though they don't actually have to fight anything."

Gunnery Gunsmith 'Guns' Guthery scowled up at the seven feet of Spartan before him. "I ain't complaining. Jes' next time, remember the guy who cleans up the shit in your armor is the guy who loads your guns, too"

"I usually end up using the weapons of dead Marines." The Chief looked Gunny the Gunsmith up and down. "Huh. Maybe you should get new job."

Gunny's wiry stubble fairly bristled in beta-male fury. "Hey—you hear this, mister 'super soldier,'" he sassed his metabolic hips, enfattened as a sedentary, vaguely Southern gentleman's would be, "for every soldier that the UNSC puts on the ground, ten thousand bucks worth of blood sweat and tears from guys like me were paid to get 'em there."

The Chief dusted off his gauntlets. "Sorry, but your problems are so small I can't even understand them. The only thing smaller than them is my penis."

"What?"

"It all started with an accident in the women's locker room back on Reach where some garden shears stabbed my prostate. I didn't know there was a problem until I started peeing blood. Well, things only went downhill from there."

"Now just a minute, I didn't ask—"

"Doctor Hazing did the best she could but in the end I ended up without a penis. By the way, in old China, younicks were important and wanted as war commanders. They peed through straws."

"Hold on—"

"Things looked up when I fused with my evil opposite brother and re-grew all the body parts I lost. But after a demon was unlocked in my brain I ate parts of myself, including those parts and a bunch of other parts. Well, Cortana did the best she could with her robot surgery when I got back to Earth, but I'll just say my wiring got a little crossed if you know what I mean."

Trance like, Gunny un-holstered his pistol and cocked its hammer back, then pushed the weapon into his mouth.

"Now I pee a fecal urine mix—"

At that moment Sergeant Sgt. Johnson strutted into the room. The Chief dropped his monologue and locked onto the black Sergeant. "Johnson! How's it hanging my man Friday?"

Johnson smiled magnanimously. "Long and brown, baby. What's up?"

"Just telling Gunnery Guns about my ravaged urethra."

Johnson eyed the poor man and the pistol in his hand. "Another dang-ass pate popper? Guns, if you keep this shit up we'll rack five people dead this week! You've really gotta check talking about the situation down there, Chief—it's more real than Reach."

The Chief's chest inflated. "REMEMBER REACH!"

Gunny put down his pistol and opened his eyes. "I'll give life a second chance, but only 'cause you asked so nice, Johnson. But I thought you croaked in the Halo incident."

The Chief spoke for Johnson. "He wasn't dead…just _taking a breather_."

Gunny shook his head. "Now just wait a damn second. I was thinking of Mendoza. Say, where is that little guy…" He licked his lips, his face gaining a strange aspect. "I'd like to…have a word with him."

"Ain't ya married, brutha?" asked Johnson.

"Not for long."

"Hell. Sorry Guns, Mendoza's classified." Johnson grabbed the Chief by the hand and led him towards the elevator.

"Classified, huh? Ye can forget about those XL sized condams you had me pick up at the drugstore! And you can forget about those Malcolm X quotes you wanted scratched on yer shotgun!"

Johnson ignored the man.

The Chief let himself be led along, calling over his shoulder to Guns: "I'll finish my story later." He turned to Johnson. "I didn't see Mendoza after Halo…know what happened to him?

"My bad homeslice, this nigga is under orders to keep that on the dl."

"I should have known never to trust the word of a black devil." He followed Johnson into the elevator and pressed down.

"I'm gonna ignore that, whitey. Fo' yo' sake." Johnson pressed up, because they were supposed to go up.

"It's times like these when I think of Captain Keyes." The Chief sighed as they both looked out the window of the elevator, out onto the small shopping mall that every orbital MAC cannon was fitted with. Idly, he picked out every minority he could find.

"Ya talkin' 'bout bein' a racist honkey, M to the Chief?" Johnson slapped the Spartan's back. "No worries. You gotta take the good with the jacked up."

"Don't touch me, tar baby."

"Heeey, okay, okay. Hey, we're gonna meet up with dat fine-ass Lieutenant Oreo today, right?" Johnson winked conspiratorially. "Bet dat ass sized rack will cheer ya up!"

"I don't know. Things have been weird lately."

_Elsewhere…_

Back on High Charity Tartarus and his brutes dragged Cercil onto a ledge overlooking a cavernous, inside out city. Perhaps a million beings lined the great walls, and they all cheered for Cercil's blood. The Brutes walked him out into the center and stood him on a big hovering platform in the middle of the mega city itself. All would witness what was about to take place.

Cercil eyed the assembled for a moment, then looked up blearily at Tartarus. "Does this remind you of Star Wars, too?"

"Silence heretic!" The crowd reciprocated Tartarus and began to chant again. "Heretic! Heretic!" Tartarus led the chant for a moment and turned to Cercil, and his ursine mouth twisted in pleasure. "They can smell the stench of your fear."

"Is that what that is-thought it was the stench of your breath."

Tartarus smirked and beckoned the other brutes. "Westrain him!" They complied, binding Cercils hands and feet up with bands of alien technology. Then the bands began to glow, because they were alien technology, and alien technology glows.

"Oh wow, and we just met, too," said Cercil, making the obligatory fearless captive gay joke. Then he added his own clever and witty spin to it. "I'm going to tear out your heart and fuck it into bloody meatloaf."

"Uh oh," said Tartarus. "Looks like we have got a badass over here."

_And back with the humans…_

The elevator was still climbing, the shopping mall dropping away. Johnson turned from the window. "So mah nigga in Chief….is it true?"

"Is what true." The Chief stared at his own reflection in the glass—half there and half faded, almost like some sort of metaphor.

"Ya dig to my jive, Chief? Didja busta nut?"

"…No?"

"Fuck you." Johnson punched him in the shoulder, then shook out his aching hand. "Is It true that you and Oreo did it when we got back to Earth?"

"Who told you that?"

"Shit. Rumors run fast through a posse. There ain't no virgins in fox holes."

"No one would stay virgin for long in the ghetto, either."

Johnson just glared at him.

"Kidding." The Chief hooked his thumbs through his combat harness and rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels. "You could say me and the Lootenant got to know each other a little better, yeah."

"Oh yeah?" Johnson grinned. "An' how was it, niggs?"

The Chief mimed a vigorous thrusting motion. "I had her up against the wall with my three foot big dick like _this_, and she was all _unf, unf_, and I was all _you like that baby once you go white you'll never be tight_, and—"

"Now jus' hold on a sec—I thought you said you didn't have a—" Johnson's laughter died in his throat. The Chief turned around to find the elevator door open and Lieutenant Oreo standing before them. She was dressed in women's clothing that was described in unnecessary detail.

Johnson was the first to speak. "Yo shorty, we was just talking about—"

"-the last time I cybered with Cortana," the Chief blurted out.

Inwardly, Johnson shook his head at the Chief's failure to two-time like a true player.

Oreo's face fell. "The last time? Oh. I hope it was back before Halo."

"It sure was."

"Uh-huh." Oreo stood with her arms crossed as she watched the Chief and Johnson disembark. "So, how've things been with you, Chief?"

"I need a father figure."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She pulled the Chief's hand towards the staircase, up which a floating news camera appeared.

"GUILTY SPARK!" The Chief pushed Oreo to the ground and then leapt over her to smash his fist into the camera's lens. It sputtered and then clattered to the ground. Two young reporters stared in shock at their broken equipment.

Oreo picked herself up and dusted her breasts off. "Oh, uh…sorry. The Chief's a little—"

"OREO I SAVED YOU."

"Retarded." She flinched. "I mean, differently-abled."

"But-but," one of the anchors sputtered "my camera! My coverage! My job!"

"OH MY GOD OREO LOOK MORE COVENANTS."

"We should probably go."

Once the normal people had all run away, Johnson came out of the elevator. Then he left the elevator and accompanied the Chief and Oreo down the stairs. "Say mah nigga in Chief, I thought I told ya to put on some bling or some shit for the ceremony."

The Chief was still shaking with adrenaline. "I don't understand, could you repeat that in fucking English?"

They stepped off the stairs towards Lord Hood and the witnesses assembled in the Command Center. "Sorry Johnson, I told him not to take your, um, 'advice,'" said Oreo. "This is the armor that he blew up Halo in. I thought it should be the armor that he receives his medals in."

The Chief planted his fists on his hips. "See, Johanson, she's smart."

A new voice cut into their conversation. "Brilliant idea. Except for one tiny problem: you can't pin medals on titanium alloy."

"Cortana!" exclaimed the Chief, rushing over to the holographic pedestal by the CIC's main console. "Long time no see!"

"Hey Chief," said Cortana from the SPARTAN's crotch level. Her hologram was now wearing leather chaps and a rider's cap complete with a majestic pony tail.

Oreo approached, glaring at the A.I.'s ensemble. "What's with the outfit?"

"Thought I'd dress up for the Chief's big special day."

"I'm scared," said the Chief.

"You definitely should be. Controlling this Orbit MAC cannon nearly fulfills my installation long dream of having an enormous dick to penetrate helpless men with—firing superheated shells into the ass ends of femmy Covenant engines comes a close second. To coming in someone's ass."

The Chief made sure he was facing her fully. "I hope some dreams were never meant to come true."

"I'll show you a dream come true," said Cortana. "In your ass."

Johsnon leaned over to Oreo. "Guess they gearin' up fo' round two, shorty!"

"Oh, that's really funny."

_On the other side of the galaxy…_

Orange light enveloped Cercil. It seared his flesh and dug under his purple armor. Black husks clattered to the deck, taking some of his flesh with them. Bare nerves and muscles were exposed to the hungry eyes of the crowd.

"That tickles."

"Funny you should say that," Tartarus growled as a gigantic metal dildo rose from the floor. It was easily seven feet long, made of gold, and covered in odd spikes and protrusions with a very sharp tip for prostate stimulation. On the end was a burning orange seal: the Mark of Shame.

Cercil's eyes widened to the size of flying saucers. "Why, fuck your ass every Friday night! Is that from your personal collection, Tartanus?"

Tartarus just leered, idly stroking the side of the huge tool. "Strip him."

The brutes obeyed, removing whatever dignity the alien left. Which was none. Everyone laughed at him.

"Now…turn the heretic around."

"It's funny," said Cercil. "I don't think I even have an anus."

The Brute Chieftain licked his lips. "Hm. Guess we'll have to _rectify _that."

_Okay, that's enough of that._

"I can't believe you're doing this to me," hissed Oreo to the Chief as Lord Hood droned on. They were standing in a line with Johnson and a dozen Marines who were there to bear witness to the ceremony.

The Chief glanced down at her distractedly, his eyes fixed on Lord Hood's jowls. "Do what?"

"Are you still having horrible depressing cyber-sex with Cortana or not?"

"I knew you were going to complain about that _eventually_."

"So am I boring to you or something? Is that where we are now?"

"You're sooooo controlling. You're just like Cortana!" The Chief poked Oreo in the tit. "I wish there was a woman just like you, but who didn't bug me all the time. And who had normal boobs."

Oreo angrily pushed one of her breasts aside so that she could see the Chief. "Did you tell Johnson? He's been giving me some sort of knowing frat boy look."

"Excuse me." Lord Hood stopped reading from the small post-it taped tactfully on a soldier's rigid back. "Can I have your attention, guys?"

The gang managed a few nods and some muttered apologies.

"Thanks. Miranda Keyes, please step forwards."

A woman stepped out of their line from the Chief's right. She was short and thin like a thirteen year old girl but she was definitely eighteen, with pale white skin, dark black hair, and liquid black eyes. Her breasts were of medium size and were easily apparent beneath the detailed and fully described clothing that she wore.

The Chief stared. "Hey Oreo, I didn't know you had a hot twin sister."

"What…but neither did I!" Oreo just watched in silent perplexity as Lord Hood tried to pin Miranda Keyes's medal on with shaking hands. A large pin accidentally pierced the girl's nipple through her military grays and she let out a gasp, back arching.

"There you go miss," said Lord Hood obliviously. "I would have called you up by your rank and given you a speech, but I don't think anyone knows what you actually do around here."

"No big deal." Miranda sighed, a red spot appearing around the medal. "Thanks, sir."

Cortana's hologram glanced from Miranda to Oreo. "I like the new bitch. She is pretty ugly, though."

Johnson hooked his thumbs through his belt as if anticipating a debriefing. "Speak fo' yoself! Dat beyatch is fine. I wouldn't mind tappin dat ass." He bit his lower lip.

"Screw you guys, okay," said Oreo.

Lord Hood raised his voice. "Master Chief Petty Officer 117, please step forwards."

"Oh brother, my full name? Am I in for it now." The Chief walked sulkily up to Lord Hood and took his place beside Miranda.

"Just a sec." Hood began to rummage around inside the medal box. "Uh…this one? No. This one. Or maybe…"

Miranda looked up at the Chief. "Damn. You must be the Master Chief. You knew my father, right?"

"Call me Chief. And yeah, he kidnapped me about twenty years ago and gave me to a life of child abuse and violence. I've got mixed feelings."

"Hell, I guess that makes you kind of an old geezer to me. And boy do I find older men unbelievably attractive." She winked.

"Okay!" Lord Hood snapped up a small sun shaped medal from the box. "We're good to go, guys." He cleared his throat. "It is my honor, Master Chief, to present you with this medal of honor. Your service during the Halo incident in repelling threats both inter-dimensional and extraterrestrial goes above and beyond the call of duty. You have more than earned this thin small piece of tin."

"I appreciate it," said the Chief as the medal was taped to his chest with scotch tape. "I should also get a medal for being abducted and psychologically tortured and physically tortured, and then mutilated and turned into a monster."

"No, Dr. Hastily got a medal for that." Lord Hood turned away. "Next!"

Oreo approached at a strategic angle to avoid spooking the Spartan. "Try and go to your happy place, Chief."

"I'm gonna throw this medal in the trash."

The audience stirred. Someone took a picture and the Chief raised a hand to shield his visor. Oreo patted him on the shoulder, her face a mixture of irritation and concern.

"Well, this ceremony couldn't be going any better," said Lord Hood loudly. He turned to Oreo. "Ah, Lieutenant. It is my honor to present you with this medal of honor. Your service during the Halo incident in repelling threats both inter-dimensional and extraterrestrial goes above and beyond the call of duty."

"Oh. Well, at least my work is being appreciated by someone."

Lord Hood made to pin the medal onto her breast but she waved him off.

"No thanks, Admiral. I'm no hero. Also, I wasn't hoping to get my nipples pierced any time soon."

"Good choice," said Cortana to the room at large. "No reason to draw any more attention to your whore udders; I'm sure you get enough tricks as it is."

Oreo shot the Chief a look. "Can't you shut her up?"

"Shut who up?" asked the Chief.

Miranda was staring at the Lieutenant's chest. "Wow. Are those natural? I wouldn't mind motor boating you, girl!" She winked at Oreo too, who just looked at the girl in disgust.

"What is your deal, anyways?"

Lord Hood interrupted their squabbling. "Sergeant Sgt. Avery S. '3rd Street Saints' Johnson, please step forwards."

"Here I be!" The black Sergeant strutted up to Lord Hood, his fatigues hanging so low down as to reveal his long and onyx underwear.

"Looks like the man's going back to black," observed Cortana.

The Chief nodded. "The ancient evil awakes."

"Jesus Christ," said Oreo to the universe at large.

Lord Hood was staring at Johnson. "…Sergeant? Are you alright?"

"Sho' thang homeslice jes' chillin in my digs you dig," exclaimed Johnson, throwing up M side.

"Glad to hear it, son." Hood opened the medal box. "It is my honor to present you with this medal of honor. Your service during the Halo incident in repelling threats both inter-dimensional and extraterrestrial goes above and beyond the call of duty." He pinned the medal to Johnson's shirt.

Johnson frowned down at it. "The hell is this!? I asked for one in the shape of a 3rd Street clover!" He tore the medal off and threw it to the ground. Lord Hood sighed and knelt to pick it up.

Cortana piped up. "I deserve a medal more than anyone here. Where's my medal?"

"Are we done yet?" asked Oreo, raising her hand.

The Chief raised his hand too. "Can I have my childhood back?"

"Everyone shut up!" Lord Hood took off his hat and revealed his gleaming bald patch. The room went deathly silent. "This isn't your fucking birthday party, okay? This is an award ceremony to show the people on earth how much we appreciate the troops, and the sacrifice of Commander Keyes!"

Miranda Keyes stopped grabbing a Marine's dick and looked up. "What? It's no prob, gramps. I like men in uniform. So did my dad, actually."

"Oh my god," said the Chief. "I just realized—award ceremony, medals, and I'm the tallest person here…I'm the WOOKIE!"

_Elsewhere in space-time…_

Cercil Saltstein awoke to Tartarus's hairy ass and balls waving back and forth in front of him as he was dragged through the cells. He groaned. "Sorry Tartanus, I'm not into Wookies."

"Ah, you're awake," said Tartarus without looking over his shoulder. He let out a huge fart which he had apparently been saving. It smelled like old lettuce.

"Fuck you," gagged Cercil. Tartarus just laughed. One of the brutes turned Cercil's head to the side, making him look at one of the cells. A few Jackals were in there doing hardcore prison things.

"My God," said Cercil. "Is he…benching five hundred?"

"That fate and more awaits you," burbled one of the Brutes, licking his lips. "After the Jackals are done pumping your iron, we shall have first _bite_ of you."

Tartarus spanked the Brute, who giggled. "Don't be silly Cassius—you know he's gonna be _all mine_."

Cercil listened to this and shuddered. "Damn guys, is it just me or is it really cold in here? My nips are like pop corn kernels."

"So are mine," said Tartarus.

The brutes dragged him into yet another fucking god damn gigantic antechamber, but this time they left Tartarus and the Prophets waiting there to handle Cercil.

Cercil stood up. His stance was oddly bow-legged. He was still naked. "Jiminy quimny, you old taints really like big enormous rooms! Having all this space must remind you of your mothers' donkey dick stretched birth canals."

"Where is the Mark of Shame, Tartarus?" asked Truth. "Did I not tell you to brand him?"

"Heh, he's branded all right," said Tartarus. "Just not anywhere where the sun does shine."

Cercil inserted a finger into his ear and twisted. "I think Bearforce One here gave me heavy metal poisoning."

Truth just stared at Tartarus for a long time. Whether his gaze was infused with rage or eroticism, only an entire desk drawer full of used condoms in High Charity's nastiest anonymous sex dungeon could tell.

"So." Regret carefully changed the direction of the conversation away from Cercil's ass. "I suppose you are wondering why you're here and why you haven't been staked up in the Halls of High Charity to slowly die?"

"I suppose that you've got something interesting in store for me?" Cercil attempted to light a cigarette and lean casually up against the wall in a show of defiance, but unfortunately there were no walls so he fell over. There were plenty of cigarettes around, though.

Regret moved forwards. "Do you know where we are?"

Cercil look around. "I don't know. I see a lot of faggots."

Tartarus snorted. Truth turned to stare at him once more.

"Try again," said Regret.

Cercil saw the coffins lining the walls, and the big pod that had a sign saying 'Arbiter's Armor' on it. There were a lot of coffins out there, stretching on forever.

"Yep, definitely faggots."

Regret turned to Truth. "Let's kill him."

"No. The Brutes killed and ate all the other Elites that I framed—or rather, that I found guilty."

Tartraus belched his ominous, rumbling laugh. In truth he was passing gas out of both ends of his body, but nobody had ever been able to tell the difference.

"Hmph." Regret turned back to Cercil. "So. What do you _actually_ see, here in the ARBITER'S mausoleum?"

"'Arbies?' Where's the beef, ya sack of baby-dicks?" Cercil winked at Tartarus. Tartarus winked back, but not with his the eyes on his head. Cercil paled.

"Y-e-s," picked up Truth as Regret searched for his aspirin. "The Arbiters, indeed. They were created and consumed in times of unprecedented crisis; The Grunt Rebellion; The Hunter Rebellion; The Rebellion Without a Cause."

"Whatcha got?" asked Cercil. "Any…" he waggled his eyebrows. "'Cigarettes?'"

Truth closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Do—do you know why we have brought you here, to this hall of dead heroes?"

"Fresh baked bagels?"

"…No. You are to be the new Arbiter. You will carry out heroic and martyring tasks for me—that is, us—or rather, the Covenant—"

"Uh-huh."

"-until you die, and believe me you will, in a rather sticky, messy way I might add."

Tartarus grinned.

"The only thing more foreshadowing than that is Tartarus's foreskin," said Cercil.

"Glad you like it," grunted Tartarus.

"Both of you be silent." Truth pointed at Cercil. "When you die you will be interred here in a garbage bag, your honor restored. If you refuse you will die now after being further shamed and humiliated."

Cercil covered his mouth in horror. "So, no bagels—no bagels at _all_?"

Tartarus smirked. "There'll be some doughy bagel holes all right…_with chocolate chips_."

"Oh god," said Cercil.

Truth's lips curled back on yellowing teeth. "Indeed. We have a special chair in mind for you, abomination…"

"_Oh god_," said Cercil.

Regret moved forwards once more. "Do you accept the gift that we offer? Your, uh, 'honor' restored, a place in the dimming annals of Sangheili history secured, and a glorious death provided?"

"What's a Sangheili?"

"You are. You." Regret looked questioningly at Truth. "…He is, right?" Mercy fated uncertainly and Truth shrugged.

Tartarus looked down his ursine muzzle at the Elite. "And like they said: if you don't accept, then I get you."

Cercil avoided the Brute's gaze. "Fine, I'll be your holy Jihad warrior or whatever—but there better be some clothes involved."

"We'll come to that in a moment," said Regret, pointing at Cercil's naked body.

Ha ha, get it?

"For now…" Truth pressed a button. A hologram of an Eite in strange armor appeared.

"Open your eyes my brothers," said the recording. "Well, I mean, open whatever you use

to see. Open your photo receptors my brothers; our Prophets are liars! And they masturbate—"

Truth deactivated the recording.

"Whoa whoa, what was that last thing he said?" Cercil popped his knuckles. "Gotta know it, for mission intel."

"It was nothing," said Truth and Regret together. Mercy farted nervously.

"Heretics!" Regret burst out. "They would use our awesome technology to broadcast their lies!"

"Yeah, okay, whatever," said Cercil. "So you want me to go to that guy's club house, kill his boyfriends, and then begin my roaring rampage of vengeance against the Covenant?"

Truth rolled his eyes. "I did not hear that last one—did you say

'kill me now, I am here, kill me, I want to die?'"

Cercil waved a hand. "'Bring justice to the heretic leader,' then."

Truth smirked. "What an odd lapse. It must be my age."

"I'll show you an odd lapse." Tartarus leered at Cercil, who sneered back.

"No need, cottage cheese dick—you already backed it up back in the hallway."

Truth pointed to the Arbiter's Armor pod, which was descending slowly to Cercil's side. "Be silent and put the armor on, now. You should be honored that our divine gaze would fall upon your foul body if even for a moment."

"Is that how fast you are?" Cercil waved his pelvis back and forth. "Glad you guys finally came to that."

Ha ha, get it?

Regret pointed to the Arbiter's armor more insistently with his rigid finger. "Go get dressed you cheap slut. The cash is on the table." He and Truth snickered to each other.

"Fuck you guys-I was faking it when I came to that anyways." Cercil walked over to the armor and examined it. The armor was old, very old, but it shone with a radiant light. The faint shimmer of shielding ran over its plates, and strange engravings covered its breast. Cercil lifted the helmet and set it on his head. He turned to face the Prophets, determination in his eyes, and drew a breath.

"Faggots."

_And elsewhere in the known universe…_

Cortana said: "Sorry to interrupt this tea party," said Cortana HA HA OOPS, "but a bucket load of Covenant ships just spooged all over our defense grid. We've got about five minutes before we all get rammed up the ass with plasma lasers."

"Oh, no, the Covenant finally found Earth," said Oreo hollowly. "I can't believe it…"

The Chief looked around. "Wait, we're near Earth? I thought we were just in space or something."

Lord Hood put his hat back on. "Cortana, activate the MAC cannons and tell them to fire at will. We need shells in the air—I mean, the space. And get the troops ready to repel boarders; we'll need everything we've got defending this grid. If it falls, then Earth does too." He nodded to the Chief. "And somebody get this strapping young soldier a weapon."

"Thanks," said the Chief.

"I meant Miranda Keyes." Hood patted her on the butt, and she giggled and began to grind on him.

"Come on, Chief, we've got work to do," said Oreo, leading him out as Hood got a little creeped out.

"Thanks for the heads up but I knew that on my own." The Chief removed Cortana from her holo-pedestal and slid her thick, hard memory drive into his tight, hot usb port. The interface was like a gentle wave of icy needles washing over his skin.

Her voice pricked his brain. "I'm open to a freebie before we go, Chief. But next time you'll pay in anal blood."

The Chief clicked his shoulder blades and rolled his neck."Let's hold off on the 'hands free' until I get to go weapons free." He turned to Oreo. "Hey Betty, I need a weapon."

Ore had been watching this display. "Check your ass, maybe you've still got a light saber stuck in there, from back on Halo. I'm surprised you can't already see it."

Johnson leaned unsubtly towards the Chief's ear. "She mean you got yo' head up yo' ass, nigga."

The Chief pushed him away. "I've had so much kinky sex with Cortana that there's no way we could have missed something that big in there."

"Now that's a conversation stopper," said Oreo.

"More like a conversation _starter_," said Cortana.

They headed down a flight of metal stairs. Oreo gave the Chief a look. "Is that supposed to make me jealous, or something? Because it really, really doesn't."

"Sure it doesn't, or something," said Cortana.

The Chief looked around the lower level of the MAC cannon they had just entered. "I need a weapon guys. Where're all the power weps?"

"My brother," said Johnson, putting a hand on the Chief's shoulder. "Look not for a weapon; violence only begets violence, which in turn begets violence."

"Good," said the Chief. He tore the medal of honor off his armored chest and threw it to the floor, then stepped on it as he made for one of the weapons racks. Miranda Keyes caught up to them moments later.

"Hey guys!" She winked at the Chief and Oreo simultaneously. "Oooh, looking for tools of the trade, huh? I've got my own bag of tools." She gave the Chief a sly look. "Maybe I can show them to you later, big guy, huh?"

The Chief smirked. "My life is full of sexy ladies."

"Oooh!" Oreo clapped her hand to her forehead. "I get it! She's like a female, hetero Mendoza!"

"It's like Oreo 2.0," said Cortana on the Chief's closed speakers. "But they replaced the political correctness with a whore."

Johnson smiled suavely down at Miranda. "So, white meat…you ever tried the dark?"

Miranda ignored him, grabbed an assault rifle off the rack, and hefted it towards the Chief. "Here Chief! It's a slab of steel specially designed to spew hot lead into alien assholes." She grinned." I prefer candle wax, myself."

The Chief's helmet titled back. "…Well."

"No," said Oreo. "Don't ever do that." She grabbed a shotgun, the most powerful close range weapon humanity had ever produced. "We're dealing with close quarters here, Chief. You want this."

"But the assault rifle is so…" Miranda ran a hand over its curved contours. "Cold." She hissed in pleasure, nails digging into the ridge of the rifle barrel, her eyes half closing. "And it's…firm."

"I'm firm," said Johnosn.

The Chief grabbed a rocket launcher. "I'll just use this."

Oreo was dubious, as usual. "Uh, I don't know. That kind of weapon seems kind of dangerous on a space station."

"I love dangerous men," Miranda beamed.

"Oh really?" The Lieutenant touched the butt of her pistol. "So, how do you like dangerous women?"

"Even more."

Oreo's eyes widened.

"I'll take that shortgun, shorty," said Johnson, wrenching it out of Oreo's slack grip. He eyed Miranda out of the corner of his eye. "It's long, thick, and black. Just how I like 'em."

Miranda hugged the assault rifle to her breasts. "Whatever, I'll keep this. It's so incredibly cold on my nipples."

Oreo looked over at the rack. That is, the weapons rack—there was only one weapon left.

"An SMG, huh?" mused the Chief. "I think that's appropriate because Oreo is pretty intimate with sand already, it makes sense that she'd want to shoot it at people."

Johnson leaned over to Oreo. "He means you got sand in yo' vagina, nigga!"

"Yeah, thanks, I get it."

"Enough talk, time is a' wasting, " said the Chief. "I need to get to hangar and kill some heretics!"

Oreo gave Johnson a worried look. "Do you know what's he's talking about?"

"No idea, shorty."

"Huh."

They followed the Chief down the stairs to fight the evil Covenant. Little did they know that the Covenant were not evil, but only poor misguided souls searching for redemption in a tragic and uncaring universe.

War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothin'!


	4. Bazaar Banter Bonanza

**Tonight's Episode**

_**Banter Bonanza Bazaar**_

The rag tag band of misfits watched with primed weapons as the steel door across the computer room began to glow, warmed by the barrage of plasma that Covenant soldiers were applying to its other side like white hot butter on a reinforced croissant.

"Time to reunite with our old friends in the Covenant," said the Chief with the brimming confidence of the stereotypical action hero. Tragically, the motion of his jaw caused a nerve to fire off in his brain, which caused his trigger finger to twitch, which caused him to fire a missile from his rocket launcher, which collided with a cluster of Marines that had hunkered down to play craps in one corner of the room, which caused them to explode. The Marines who had taken cover elsewhere were too busy trading sexual drug deals whilst making favors to notice the deaths of their comrades.

Oreo ducked as several chunks of broiled clone-flesh flew over her head. "Old friends, huh? Honestly it's probably safer to be your enemy."

"Don' werry 'bout tham Marines, girl," Sergeant Johnson offered this consolation around a fat cigar: "'s like steppin' on a spider, shorty; shoo,'s a livin' thang, but they so disgustin' an' inhuman that you can't even give a phuck."

The Chief reloaded his rocket launcher. "I feel the same way about you, Johnson."

"Sheeet."

Miranda stopped riding her rifle and looked up at the carnage the Chief had caused. "Whoa. That was a pretty explosive payload. Try to keep it in your pants there, soldier!" She winked. The Chief grinned at her, though nobody saw it.

Cortana was also aroused by the death of twelve 'people.' "What a shame. They're nothing more than work for the janitorial staff now, right Sergeant Johnson?"

"What th' fuck are you implyin' by directing that question towards me, honkey donkey!? Not all janitors are black, ya' racist! Go fuck yo' self!"

The Chief sighed. "Gee I wish Mendoza was here! He would fuck himself."

"Jelly!" said Miranda enviously. "I've been trying to do that for ages!"

"Be careful what you wish for, Chief," said Oreo in disgust. "You might just get someone exactly like what you wish for."

He nodded. "And then I'll wish for a sexy cat fight between two similar looking women."

"Similar?" said Miranda Keyes. "What are you talking about?"

Cortana huffed. "Johnson, look at Oreo and Miss Keyes. They're obviously physically similar, right? Except for the tits."

Johnson held up a bling encrusted hand. "Ladies, please. All bitches look the same to me. …Except for the tits."

"That's funny," said the Chief. "Because all black people look the same to me."

At that moment the steel door on the far side of the room melted like the hearts of odd smelling fan girls reading male impregnation fan fiction.

"Oh no!" said Miranda. "The door just broke!"

Lieutenant Oreo rounded on her. "Hey, why don't you do what Mendoza would do and fuck them to hold them off?."

"Huh." Miranda Keyes eyed the Covenant squad as it began to take cover. "I like the way you think, O-Bitch."

Johnson hefted his pants. "Miss Keyes, if you really want to experiment you could play _Indi-Anal Moans_ to my _Myth of the Black Penis_."`

Miranda's lip curled. "You are SO gross."

There was a great explosion and a flash of light. Everyone ducked as a mangled Covenant Elite flew over their heads in a shower of fizzy grape drink, a blackened grape fanta from the nearby vending machine clutched in his flaming hand. Miranda was covered in a huge spray of purple liquid, which she sucked off of her fingers. Her body quivered.

"Oh, gross," said the Chief as he and everyone else stared at her. "Grape fanta tastes like a faggot."

"Chief!" Oreo looked at him reproachfully. "What would Mendoza say if he heard you using the 'f word?'"

"I don't know. What does he usually say?"

Now Miranda Keyes looked over the smoking corpses that now littered the floor of the computer room. She pointed. "Hey. That guy is pretty hot."

Oreos snapped her fingers. "Exactly. Wait…were you talking about the corpses?"

"Ugh, now I'm getting Cercil flash backs." The Chief stomped off.

The rag tag band eyed each other nervously and set off after their fearful leader. As the Chief stepped through the smoldering wreck of the door Oreo fell into step beside him.

"Putting all our domestic problems aside, Chief—"

"My ass hurts."

"—how are you feeling?"

The Chief put a hand on the back of his helmet as they turned a corner, only to have to sidestep a pile of burning debris. "Last night I had a dream that a giant gay bear molested me with a golden dildo the size of a child."

"So," said Cortana, "business as usual?"

Oreo cleared her throat. "Are you sure it wasn't, you know…_the other guy?_"

"The Hulk?"

"No. The purple one."

"There is no purple Hulk."

"Not any kind of hulk, Chief. Your, uh…your 'brother.'"

The Chief shrugged. "Johnson?" Seeing Oreo's face, he laughed. "Ha, I'm just kidding. You know I was just yelling at Cortana for bringing Cercil up." He scratched the chin of his helmet. "Hm, now that you mention it, I think it was Cercil who got golden dildo molested last night."

"How do you know for sure?"

"The gay jokes, Oreo." His voice shook ever so slightly. "_There were so many_."

"Hm." Oreo bit her lip. "So you're still sharing dreams, huh. That can't be good…the last time you shared dreams you ended up sharing bodies."

Miranda walked between them. "What last time? What happened? Was it...sexy?"

The Chief shrugged. "That depends on if you think the most horrible thing ever is sexy."

Miranda opened her mouth.

"Don't answer that," said Oreo.

Before they could talk any further they all had to crouch and sprint through a small courtyard. Green armored Grunts of the new Covenant 'GAG' division were setting up turrets in the flower beds. Why enormous orbital guns in space need to have flower beds in them is beyond me. Anyways, The Gang (of humans) managed to avoid getting perforated with plasma as they crossed the courtyard. None of the Marines following them were so lucky—which is to say that they all died.

"Griiiiingos!" cried one Marine as he swarmed by Grunts, which began to gag him.

Johnson was bringing up the fine-ass rear booty of the group. "Where we be headed, niggs?" he called after them over the roar of plasma fire and the screams of dying humans.

"TO WAR." The Chief rose up from behind cover like a jade golem awakening from an ancient Chinese warlord's tomb. He threw three frag grenades. One grenade bounced off the head of a Grunt that was manning (grunting?) a turret. Another grenade smashed into a makeshift Covenant shield, and for good measure the third flew up the ass of a screaming Elite.

"Nice aim," said Miranda, patting the Chief on the butt. "Maybe later we can see if my catching is as good as your pitching."

"Subtle," said Oreo. "Real subtle.

"I don't get it," said the Chief.

All three of the grenades detonated. The Covenant forces were ripped apart in a three eyed hurricane of shrapnel and flame that sprayed offal across every available surface, leaving terrible scorch marks in its wake.

"What the hell," said the Chief. "Grenades used to be waaaay better."

Johnson grunted (manned?) in agreement. "I remembah the last time a real grenade went off…otherwise known asChernobyl, nigga."

"Yeah, sure." Oreo walked away from him in complete disgust. The Chief followed her after making a hex sign at Johnson to ward off evil. Miranda approached the both of them as they walked through the flower beds and into the MAC gun's resident botanical garden.

"So who's this Cercil guy?" she asked. "Friend of yours? Is he hot?"

"What's the opposite of hot?" asked Oreo. "Because he's that. Right, Chief?"

The Chief shrugged nonchalantly to this female attention, silently congratulating himself that the bottle of AXE hair gel he had shoved up his ass was finally doing the trick. "She's right about that, at least. Let's just say he's the…deformed Vegeta to my Goku."

"Vegeta?"

"Hm." The Chief considered her. "Spike to my Angel?"

"What?"

"Uh…Voldemort to my Dumbledore, Vader to my Obi-Wan?"

"Uh…"

"Jacob to my Edward?" The Chief frowned. "Well…maybe Edward to my Jacob. Who knows, that shit is wack." Johnson perked up at this vaguely street phrasing and began to approach. In the mean time, Oreo looked at the Chief wonderingly. "Chief, when did you have time to learn about things?"

"My quarters on this station have a TV," said the Chief.

Miranda flicked her dark hair. "I was raised by a man who believed that TV was literally invented by the devil and that women have sex with snakes."

Johnson bootied in. "Havin' trouble getting thru to this bitch? Let me help explain, niggers."

"Would you stop saying that word?" Oreo whined, looking around as if she were afraid someone would hear. For a moment she thought she saw Spike Lee leering from beneath a bed of roses. Her face paled.

Johnson ignored her and offered his hands in a picture frame to Miranda. "Bitch, let me explain 'cho exactly what this Cercil is."

Miranda gave him a wide berth. "Okay…."

"Just think of the worst, most awful, disgusting person you can," continued Johnson.

"You."

"Hey! I was telling this story!" The Chief shoved Johnson into a shrubbery. "Now cross that person with Captain Keyes because he taught me and Cercil a lot of our morale sensibilities growing up."

Miranda frowned. "You mean in the Spartan program? So Cercil is a Spartan."

"No, no." The Chief held up a green plated finger. "No, now imagine crossing that already twice crossed person with an enormous pussy who is incredibly easy to kill and yet never seems to actually die, only disappears."

"So," said Cortana. "A Spartan?"

"Don't listen to her, Miranda; I cut the head off of the last person that talked bad about the Spartans."

"You mean Silva?" asked Oreo, catching up to them as they crossed the peaceful Japanese style garden bridge and approached the MAC's local green house. "I was there when that happened. You know it was Cercil who killed Major Silva, right, Chief? Cut his head off." She looked around at their surroundings with increasing confusion.

The Chief frowned at her. "Oh. Well, I'm already sharing dreams and girlfriends with Cercil, what more are a few memories?"

Oreo stopped. "_Excuse me?_"

Miranda stifled her giggles. "Maybe you can't hear him around all the milk sloshing in those giant udders of yours."

"I do not have udders!"

"She totally does," said Cortana.

They entered the greenhouse and started walking through rows and rows of flowers. Butterflies danced around them.

"Anyways," resumed the Chief to Miranda as they passed by several wise looking Latino gardeners, "all you need to know is that he's a bad guy okay?"

"Except when he teams up with us and becomes your new best friend," said Oreo out of the corner of her mouth.

The Chief nodded. "Except when Oreo has horrible disgusting panty hose fetish sex with him while I'm being attacked by cosmic deities that want to rape me."

"That didn't happen," Oreo said.

Cortana whistled innocently. "_Pretty sure it did_."

"NO IT DIDN'T!"

"Cortana's always got my back," confided the Chief in Miranda.

Miranda stretched like a cat. "As long as you've got my back, Chief. My…_bareback_."

The Chief stopped walking. "I don't get it."

Johnson appeared at his side as if by magic. "She means she wan yo' ta' bust a nut in her, Chief!"

He waved a hand. "No, I get that. I just don't understand why we're here in the local greenhouse. Where are we going?"

"We were following you," said Oreo.

"Good idea," said Cortana. "Because the Chief's got a great track record as a leader."

"Well, I _am _the hero of humanity."

_Across space and time, then take the first right…_

Cercil followed Tartarus out of the Arbiter's Mausoleum. The corridor's shadows were thick, but he only needed to track the smell of matted semen to follow the Brute Chieftain.

"That was fun," said the newly minted Arbiter, walking stiffly to avoid paining his tender mark of shame. Tartarus did not immediately respond. "Oh Tartanus, I know you're only bitter because you didn't get to rape me. Tough love, tough luck. Anyways…" Cercil examined the designs engraved on his armlets, then twisted his head to peek at the large pauldrons on his shoulders. "What, did all the Arbiters sign their names on this tin can?"

Tartarus glanced back at his charge without stopping. "Not quite—it's old Covenantese for 'Prophet's Whore'." He pointed at Cercil's barely decent butt-plate, and the symbols inscribed there. "That means 'Brute's Bitch.'"

Cercil held up a fist. "Will this one mean the same thing when it's rammed up your ass?"

"_Let's find out_."

Cercil put an extra foot between them. "On second thought, I'll stick with the original translation."

They entered a cramped and dimly lit hanger bay. The hefty purple curves of several Covenant Phantoms loomed above, accessible by a series of walkways which were accessible by a series of staircases. More Phantoms were lined up in never ending rows before them like the most erotic maze ever designed. The smell of bleach assaulted the Arbiter's nostrils and the sound of squealing Grunts and thrumming alien technology penetrated his ears, because alien technology thrums. The lights set into the vaulted maroon ceiling were all flickering variations on blue and purple. He nudged Tartarus. "Hey buddy, looks like we've finally found the sex rave!"

"Just as planned," growled the Chieftain.

Cercil laughed nervously and patted around his armor. "Darn. All out of glow sticks. Maybe some phosphorescent Drone wieners will do the trick." He looked lost in thought for a moment. "Why did I ever stop collecting severed dicks, anyways? Time…just slips by."

"Are you done?" asked Tartarus.

"Yes."

The Brute grinned. "Because I'm just getting started."

"I'm sure you are." Cercil pulled a small piece of paper from beneath one of the very tight leather straps that crisscrossed his chest. Peering down at the faded post-it, he read the Prophet of Truth's hasty scrawl.

_Dear Bitch,_

_Once Tartarus takes me—I mean you-to the super-secret black ops hanger where I plan missions to oppress the Elites—I mean bring glory to the Covenant—look for the biggest, thickest, longest ship you can find. Tartarus will know what to do._

_ XOXO,_

_ Truthy_

_ P.S. If you see a Brute or two on the way there, send them to my quarters._

"Huh." Cercil tucked the paper back into his Arbiter's armor. It had a lot of places to…store things. "I swear this armor smells like someone's been using it recently."

Tartarus chuckled. "You don't know the half of it."

"Another one liner?" Cercil watched him out of the corner of his eye. "Guess we know what you're thing is, huh?"

"If anyone is well acquainted with my thing, it's you."

"Funny." Cercil picked at the tight leather straps all over the armor. "I feel like a dark elf."

"You have certain fey qualities," said a strangely lisping voice. Cercil whirled to face an Elite in the white armor of a Special Ops Super Duper Leader. He had proud posture and was missing two of his mandibles.

Cercil looked him up and down. "I remember you from the trial. Thanks for defending me."

The Leader sniffed. "I wasthn't doing it for you, I wasth doing it for our people."

"I was being sarcastic. You actually made things worse for me just be opening your fucking deformed mouth." Cercil fiddled behind his back. "Hold on Two-Face, I think I've got a coin stuck in the crack of my ass for you." He winced. "They sure packed a lot into this gimp suit."

"I'd like to pack a lot in you," said Tartarus.

"Please stop," said Cercil.

"I'm not thurprised that your ath hurts," said the Leader, giving Tartarus a respectful look. "Not after that branding video that was released on BruteTube. Not bad, Chieftain."

"Thanks," simpered the Brute.

"Oh goody sweetness," said Cercil, continuing to search his stripperific armor. "More targets to add to my list of screaming vengeance. Quick, tell me your name—Crippled Piece of Shit—something, right? Last name…Dead Man?"

The Leader's eyes flashed. "Crippled? I am a great warrior. Do you know what my men call me?"

"'Daddy?'"

"No! Through the ranksth of the Special Operations Elites, I am known as Half-Killer!"

"OoOoOh." Cercil waggled his fingers. "I'm shaking in my sexy thigh high boots." He thumbed over his shoulder at the hanger at large. "Truthy-Pie's note said Tartanus would show me around this shit shack, not you. So why don't you trot back to whatever nursing home you escaped from and go suck apricots through a straw?"

"Sthshiit-shthack?" Spittle sprayed from Half-Killer's mutilated mouth. "This is the sssthecret base of operationsth for the Sttthhpecial Operationsths 'Elite Killersth' Division!" He frowned. "The Prophet of Truth himself commissththhssioned us to be Elite killersth in his service. As much as I disagree with histh preferential policysthhshth for the Brutesth, this wasth an opportunity I could not ssssthanely pasthssth up."

Cercil began to carefully wipe the spit off of his face.

Tartarus didn't. "And yet the Prophet sent me along anyways. Perhaps he places even less trust in you than you suspect."

A new voice split the ambient thrumming of the hangar. "Can't say I blame him."

Cercil turned around. "Why do people keep on leading off of what we say?" His eyes found a tall, thin Spec Ops Elite with a beam rifle strapped to its back. It had a very dark complexion and yellow eyes that fairly glowed with sardonic loathing.

Cercil clapped his hands. "Hey-hey-hey, it's our token black teammate! Amirite?"

"Actually she'sth the token female teammate. Arbiter, may I presthent to you Kit Fisthto! Expert gutter snipe, master of anachronistic disguises, and my left hand in this operation."

"I'm fine with being whichever hand is going to stay on the longest, sir," said Fisto.

"She'sth altho a bitsch."

"So, you're a girl, huh? That's _hot_." Cercil gave Fisto a closer look. This time he realized that she was wearing the armor of an alien warrioress, which along with her incredibly exotic (I JERKED OFF TO AVATAR SEVENTEEN TIMES) body was described in much detail. This was obviously Cercil's chance to score. He slicked back his non-existent hair and prepared his most powerful negging.

"Have we met? I know all the whores on High Charity."

NEGGING

Fisto's voice was as flat as her chest. "That's probably because you're one of them."

"You can say that again," put in Tartarus.

"You better," said Cercil, gesturing to Half-Killer. "Because I think o'l' 'war wound' here is a little hard of hearing from all them German mortars."

Half-Killer wiped his mouth unconsciously. "I lost these mandibles in battle with the demon itself! You would do well to remember that." He glared at them, then at Tartarus. "All of you would."

"I wish I could have been there when it happened," said Cercil.

Half-Killer and Fisto gave each other nervous, sidelong glances. "Yes, well, there's no way you could have been; why, we've never met before, and we certainly never framed the Arbiter for the destruction of Halo, did we Fisto/"

"Right," said Fisto.

"Seems legit," said Cercil. "So can you show me to my ship now? I want to name it the USS Chief-Killer."

Half-Killer snorted as he walked deeper into the hanger. They followed. "Hardly your ship or mine, Arbiter; Truth has _generously_" his voice dripped with disgust "sponsored this mission with the assistance of his pet sex fiend."

Cercil followed him past rows of purple dildo ships. "That's my name, don't wear it out."

"He means me," said Tartarus. "I'm _coming_ with you."

The Arbiter paled.

"What's the matter?" leered Tartarus. "You're mind somewhere else today, Arbiter? Somewhere…Mark of Shameful?"

"I think he likes you, Arbiter," observed Fisto.

Cercil shook his head as if to clear it of bad memories. "We used to have a thing, but he had pressing engagements with Truth's cock leash."

"Jealous?" asked Tartarus. "Don't worry. The Arbiter's cock leash is much shorter."

"I like this guy," said Fisto.

Tartarus snapped at her. "Silence, Sangheili breeder! I'll sear off your flesh and eat it!"

"That'll be hard to do, ape…" said Fisto, running a hand along the barrel of her beam rifle "with an extra love hole bored in your skull."

"A feisty one! You've gathered quite a crew, Half-Killer." Tartarus laughed heartily, slapping him on the back. "And you can be sure that wherever there're Elite killers to be found, I'm there!"

Half-Killer looked faintly uncomfortable, as if something was nagging at the back of his mind. "You know I didn't want to mention this," he began, "but I absolutely forbid any sort of fraternization on this mission." He looked regretfully off into the distance. "It leads to no good; the Demon killed someone very dear to me back on Halo."

Fisto kicked him in the shin. "Back on what, _Half-Killer?_"

"Oh!" He jumped. "Um, back on the—in the—at—"

"At the gay bath house?" suggested Cercil.

Half-Killer snapped his fingers and gave him a thankful look. "Yes, at the gay bath housth."

"To the surprise of absolutely no one," muttered Fisto.

"Well of course," said Cercil. "Because you were already there."

"Oh you silly lambs," burped Tartarus. His voice changed into a growl as he moved up behind the Arbiter. "Why don't we all pile onto my ship before I get hungry for some _veal_." There was sharp slapping sound and Cercil jumped, clutching his behind.

"Thisth ith exactly what I'm talking about," said Half-Killer. "Spec Ops is a prestigious, professional unit." He cut his hand through the air. "I'll tolerate no fraternization, or sodomization, not even from the Captain of our vessel. _Tartarus_?"

The Brute Chieftain gave him a dirty look. "I'll play along with you for now, Half-Killer." He turned towards the largest ship in the hanger and spread his arms. "Now, may I present to you lame and shitty Elites the pride of Brute engineering! The largest stealth insertion vessel in the Covenant Fleet: the _UNE Grape_."

Like all Covenant ships it had the shape and coloration of alien genitalia.

"'Grape?'" asked Cercil.

"That's rape," said Tartarus. "But with a 'g.' _So you know it's gay_."

The Arbiter paled. Again.

Kit Fisto looked over at Half-Killer. "Good job keeping things in check, sir."

"Fhuck you."

"Didn't know you found me that masculine, sir."

Half-Killer threw up his hands in exasperation and approached the ship. Tartarus followed, opening its bay doors for the Spec Ops Leader and giving a sarcastic bow before accompanying him inside.

"Is there anyone you get along with?" asked Cercil as he and Fisto headed after them. "Based on this sample of a lisping asshole and an enormous bear I have concluded you have no friends."

"You forgot the mincing bitch. And I do like my rifle," said Kit Fisto, running a hand over the long barrel of her sniper rifle.

"Gun sex? You're even more of a freak than me!"

Fisto scoffed. "Then you're a giant pussy."

"My giant pussy is tighter than yours."

"Not after Tartarus, I bet."

"Nope." Cercil shook his head. "The nastiest dildo in Tartarus's collection could never compare to your galaxy wide interstellar giant dick gangbang."

"Actually, I gave up on the first dozen or so dicks; I haven't been able to stomach men since I met you."

"That was a mirror."

"Ah, I see," said Fisto in a burst of understanding. "Tartarus must have given it to you to hold up in front of your face so that he could watch himself rape your ass."

"Actually, I use it to see around corners to make sure you aren't coming. Want to avoid turning to stone and all that, you know."

"I know you're deathly afraid of women, but you have to conquer that fear if you ever want to be penetrated by a woman."

They headed up the ramp. "Don't get me wrong," said Cercil. "It's not you, it's all the semen saturating your organs; I'm allergic to jizz. Can't even get near it without puffing up."

Fisto feigned shock. "Impossible! There's no way you could have survived that secret meeting with the Prophets if you had a semen allergy!"

Cercil sat down across from her in one of the passenger chairs. "Right. You know I could swear that we've met before. Names are tough, but I never forget a face. _Cum Fart Eruption 8_, right?"

Fisto sat down too. "I know what you mean…_Brute Bottom Twinks 37: Tartarus's Bottom Bitch Edition,_ right?"

"I thought you were gay for the other half dozen female Elites in the universe," said Cercil.

"I thought you were allergic to any semen that wasn't Tartarus's."

"Only half true. Really I'm allergic to Grunt semen." Cercil coughed into his hand conspicuously. "You haven't been fucking every Grunt in the Covenant again, have you?'

"What, were there a few missing from the line to your prison cell?"

Cercil slammed a fist into his palm. "That's it! Our lines must have gotten crossed, because I got a few dogs, horses, and elephants last night."

"Oh wow," said Fisto. "What a burn on me that is."

"Let me explain," said Cercil. "I was implying that you have sex with animals; you might have gotten it sooner if you hadn't sucked and fucked your way from pre-school to community college."

"That's not how I got through sniping academy," said Fisto, reaching for her rifle. "Here. Let me show you."

Cercil raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I'm not into shoving guns in my gapes. Thanks for the offer, though."

"Guys." Half-Killer went to stand between them. "I won't have my soldiers sniping at each other like this. Well, except for you, Fisto. You can snipe him later. Anyways, a Spec Ops unit is like a cock—I mean a clock; that is, there are lot of little gears, but the clock only dicks—I mean, ticks, if all of them work together." He meshed his fingers. "We need synergy, people."

"His heart is in the right penis," said Cercil.

"I want to sodomize the Arbiter," exclaimed Tartarus from the cock pit. Cercil jumped.

"I want to shoot him," said Fisto. "Maybe we can team up."

"I want to cut off his mouth," agreed Half-Killer. "Wait—I mean, no! This is exactly what I'm talking about! No one is shooting anyone, understand?"

"It's funny," said Cercil, "But you remind me of someone a knew a long month ago. Back on Halo, this failure of a man was too busy pitching to his Jackal fuckbro to catch up to what was going down, if you know what I mean. Let me tell you: that whole thing was _his _fault." His eyes audibly clicked when he looked over to Kit Fisto "He and his half-breed Elite slash negro transgender sidekick Clit Shitso framed _me_ for the whole thing."

Kit Fisto and Half-Killer gave each other sidelong looks, nervously.

"Also he stole my daughter," finished Cercil.

Half-Killer drew himself to his full height. "I'm sure Commander—what was his name—Darr—el? Darrel. Was trying to make the best out of a bad situation, while surrounded by people that were doing their best to make things worse.

"Pff." Fisto scoffed, but gave him a sly look. "Not likely. I remember that guy, too. He came up with terrible plans that always ended with failing or blowing ourselves up."

Half-Killer put a hand over his heart. "Someone has to make the hard decisions. You should respect that this fine, handsome Commander Darren—whoever he was and wherever he is now—might not have been in the ideal place at the proper time to make the right decision."

"What place is that?" asked Cercil. "All fours?"

Kit Fisto snickered and at that moment, as she looked into Cercil's pus-leaking eyes, a beautiful thing happened: on Earth, a white baby was born.

Half-Killer gave them a reproachful look. "I'm sure that if he was here, Commander Darren would be very offended by that joke."

"Sounds like you know him," said Cercil. "Which would explain a lot, since you immediately knew who I was talking about without me ever giving a name."

"Fancy that," said Kit Fisto.

Cercil, Fisto, and Half-Killer exchanged sidelong glances.

"But if he theoretically was here," began Half-Killer. "And anyone else was to theoretically find out that he was responsible for Halo's destruction, then they would definitely all be put to death."

"Except for maybe the Arbiter," suggested Cercil.

"True," said Half-Killer. "If it wasn't for the fact that the Arbiter is actually the magical mind-clone of the Demon, and that if anyone were to find this out he would spend the rest of his life on an operating table being dissected by Covenant Doctors."

"Hot doctors?"

Tartarus's voice came over the intercom. "Are you blundering Elites talking about Commander Darren? You foolish reptiles don't even know! Before he dropped off the map, he was the de-facto emperor of interracial porn! I have the entire _Grunt on Drone _collection—over 500+ hours of hardcore swarm action." The Brute let out rather wet sigh. "I usually only eat and rape/torture Elites, but boy let me tell you about—"

"Would you look at that," said Half-Killer as sweat visibly poured off of every inch of his body, "looks like my Spec Ops Elites have finally arrived."

Indeed, about two dozen black armored Elites were filing into the ship, looking around confusedly. One of them had a basket of snacks in its arms.

Fisto reached into the basket. "Wow. I never knew Commander Darren was a legendary pornographer."

"Ohmygosh!" exclaimed the snack carrying Elite. "Are you guys talking about who I think you're talking about? I have so many of his movies!"

"Looks like someone's got fans," said Cercil. "If only he was around to sign their penises."

The other Spec Ops soldiers clamored in agreement. Half-Killer eyed them with annoyance. "Whose idea was it to bring snacks?" he asked.

The one with the basket froze in the middle of sitting down. "We all pitched in for granola bars and Capri-Suns, sir."

"That's right." Fisto punched a hole in her Capri-Sun and began to sip on its straw whilst opening a granola bar. "A woman needs some slow burning carbs for sniping."

"Sure," said Cercil. "But what about you?"

"I'm going to make you dance like a bitch." She stroked the barrel of her rifle and gave the Arbiter a pleasant smile.

"I only know one dance," said Cercil. "It's called the lock and pop. First you find someone with a dick bigger than her beam rifle. Then you lock her in your basement and pop her eyes out with a rusty spoon."

"Is that one of the Jackson moves?"

"I prefer the lock and brand," added Tartarus over the intercom. "First you find a loud mouthed little bitch. Then you lock him up in front of ten million people and brand his anus with the Mark of Shame."

Cercil pointed at the speaker. "I know that dance! But you missed the last step: I'm going to snap your head off like a soda can tab and drink your insides like the gayest chunky cherry meat shake ever cunt-shitted out this side of Ursa Major."

"Ooo, scary," said Tartarus. "You couldn't even swallow _half_ of what I've got."

"Sounds like he already did," said Kit Fisto.

As the Spec Ops Elites obliviously gorged upon granola and fruit juice, Half-Killer took Cercil by the arm and led him towards a dark corner of the _UNE Grape._

"That's enough, Arbiter."

Cercil crossed his arms. "They started it."

"I need this team focused; the Prophets may have appointed you as their personal butt tracking bloodhound, but these are my Elites. Their lives matter to me—yours does not."

"That makes two of us," said Cercil, leaning forwards grimly.

Half-Killer cocked his head to the side. "Hm. Do you mean that you're so full of bitter rage and shame that you don't care if you live or die?"

"No," said Cercil. "I mean that I am immortal."

"Oh, really?" asked the Spec Ops Leader, his mangled face illuminated by the sinister purple hue of the drop bay. "Don't let it worry you, Arbiter… I'm _sure we can work something out_."

At that moment the _UNE Grape _lurchd from the deck of the hangar bay on a mattress of pink sparkles, its erotical chassis thrumming with the unexplainable power of alien technology. Cercil and Half-Killer were thrown towards each other. Their mouths accidentally met for _un momento en tiempo._

"Wow," said Kit Fisto, walking up to the pair as they disengaged. "That happened a lot sooner than I was betting on." She palmed a fistful of glowing alien money off to one of the other Spec Ops Elites. Alien money actually glows because it is laced with phosphorous.

Cercil smacked his lips. "He tasted like crippled failure."

Half-Killer began to wretch. "It was like re-enacting 'Two Girls One Cup' with a Komodo Dragon."

"Not a simile that I can relate to," said Kit Fisto.

Cercil stroked his chin in a stage actor's manner and widened his eyes to the size of saucers. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much! I thought I recognized you."

"You're right," said Fisto without a single ounce of sarcasm, at all "I was a grip on the set, and you were one of the actresses."

"It's like a craigslist missed connection," sighed Cercil. "I was acting in a scatological porn, you were a transgendered mutant whore."

Kit Fisto flicked the safety off of beam rifle. "Don't worry. I'm not going to miss this _connection_."

"So sweet," said Half-Jaw, looking over and flicking his wrist, "to see young love blossom in the ranks of war."

"Because that is exactly what is happening here," said Kit Fisto.

Cercil turned to Half-Killer. "I'll blossom your rib cage open with my young love all up in your fucking guts you little lisping shit."

"Hey," said Tartarus over the intercom. "If he wants to join in that's cool with me, bebbe."

"Ugh." As Half-Killer fled to go get a Capri Sun, Kit Fisto caught his arm.

"Don't worry, sir." Her yellow eyes gleamed. "We'll see if he doesn't have an accident before this mission is over."

Half-Killer nodded. "Make it so, Fisto."


End file.
